Bouncers

Nice picture, eh?

Ah, it was free. Fuck you.

Anyway, I’m going out in Sydney tonight. It’s a rare thing for me these days. No longer am I the social butterfly I was in my twenties; I now prefer a night at home, my own (excellent choice of) music and a glass of decent Scotch. Also, circumstances change, you know. Things happen that make going out and either less appealing and/or less practical. Like the dog, for example. Lovely little mite, he is, but I can’t leave him in on his own too long. Plus, I’d rather hang out with that little bastard than most humans in the world, so it’s not like staying in is some great loss.

But tonight I am out.

An innocuous meal at some trendy burger place in a suburb I’ve only even passed through on the train. I get nervous going out in Sydney. I think it’s because of the bouncers.

The RSA laws kill me. RSA stands for Responsible Service of Alcohol. Basically, they put the onus for looking after that patrons’ safety onto the establishment, and consequently the staff … and that means the bouncers are particularly mean.

Now I’m used to UK drinking. I was once in a bar with a friend who downed a pint of lager, threw it up in the same glass and was served a black Sambuca by the friendly barman a few minutes later.

I suppose RSA was introduced in the guise of the government looking after its sick, cirossis-ridden, alcoholic citizens. And you can’t really argue with a government looking after the health of its people, right? Still, when you look at it a little closer, it’s one of the things (along with Sydney’s bizarre lockout laws) that has killed Sydney’s bar and club scene. Consequently, the vacant real estate has been developed into new build apartments for the the city’s now uber-healthy, affluent elite. And who made a shit-ton of $$$ of out those property deals? A bunch of dudes in the government.

But they were just looking after our health, right?

Ah, what am I gonna do?

But it does stress me out when I pull out my shiny Jeffery West Cuban heels, whack on ABBA and start to get ready for a night on the puke-free tiles. The other day, I walked past a bar in Kings Cross at 11pm on a Friday night. There was a queue of maybe fifty people trying to get in. Inside the bar – and it’s a big place – were around ten, seemingly sober, Ralph Lauren-clad punters. The bouncer turned away almost everyone who was trying to get in. It’s almost as if he didn’t have the savvy to realise that if the bar closed down the fat cunt would be out of a motherfucking job. 

But I didn’t care. I just went home to my dog.

Anyway, I’ve always had a bad relationship with bouncers. It’s nothing to do with Australia (although the laws do give the dumb bastards way too much power over here). I always wondered what sort of person does that for a living. Does a five year old kid wake up one morning and say, “Daddy, I want to be a doorman when I grow up.”

(Well, maybe in Stoke or something.)

Is it the bomber jackets?

Is it the free cocaine that they ‘confiscate’?

Or is it the small, feeling of power on a Friday night?

I suppose bouncers, to me, represent the lowest form of authority figure.

And I should confess that I’m a dick to them – I try to wind them up. I was once in a bar in Piccadilly, not having a particularly enjoyable time, and so I caught the bouncers eye and lit up a post-smoking ban cigarette. He strong-armed me to the door and banned me from the establishment, which has since become a rather nice sushi shop. Gave me a great excuse to fuck off home.

And then there was a time in The Provinces, when I was banned for a place because the barmaid didn’t like me and told the bouncer I wasn’t a very nice man. I was playing a gig that night, and they kind of had to let me stay ’til the end of the set. But after that, I was out. Strong-armed again. To my delight, they had yet to discover I’d pissed on the sofa in the dressing room, so one-nil to Jack, I suppose.

And that time I broke the bouncer’s nose kind of by accident … although perhaps that one deserves its own blog entry at some point.

You get the point. Me vs Them. Neither party is entirely virtuous.

Anyway, on the cusp of socialising right now. Normally I’d be making my way through bottle of something. But instead I’m blogging and playing with Lou, so when the bouncer looks me in the eye later tonight and says, (although it’s not really a question), “Have you been drinking today, Sir?” I can reply, “No, you cunt.”

See you later. Don’t wait up.

5 comments

  1. Hahaha !

    Yep had my fair share of fat cunt moments … though with me they would heft me over their fucking SHOULDERS and deposit me outside …WTF!
    The bar would be a blur in reverse .
    It could have been because I didn’t follow the exact ” keep to this side while entering ” protocol , ( I shit you not … how stupid right ?)
    though usually ( and more understandably) because I would insist on sitting on the bar while drinking ( was a much better perch to spot cute guys )
    Sigh….
    Lou sounds more fun than a night out in snoozefest oz…

    Liked by 1 person

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